In Good Company
by Surae aka Minor Mortals
Summary: Sam/Dean Wincest. Short Song Fic/Drabble about Dean's thoughts as he's driving down the highway. Oneshot.


**TITLE: **In Good Company

**DISCLAIMER: **Much to my chagrin, I own nothing, so please do not sue me.

**SUMMARY: **Song fic/Drabble about Dean's thoughts set to the lyrics of** Bad Company **by **Bad Company**.

**WARNINGS: **Allusions to Wincest of the Sam/Dean persuasion. If you don't like don't read, simple as that.

**FEEDBACK: **This is my first story and reviews are fodder to my imagination. No need to play nice, if it sucks, then please do say so. Although I do appreciate any response you are willing to give me, I appreciate civility as well.

_Company,__ always on the run_

_Destiny__, and the rising sun_

_I was born, six gun in my hand_

_Behind a gun I make my final stand_

Dean listened to the song he'd heard many times over his short life as the Impala made its way down the dusty highway. He reached over to turn it up the volume, but when he did he glanced over at his brothers sleeping form crammed into the passenger seat, and decided against it.

Sam needed to sleep. The majority of his time now days was spent hunched over his laptop or otherwise invested in finding Dean a way out of his deal. He hardly got any sleep anymore, let alone actual rest. Sam looked so peaceful when he slept, except for when visions marred the features on his sleep slackened face. Dean turned his eyes back to the seemingly never ending straightness of the baked highway and kept listening to the song coming through the radio.

_That's why they call me Bad Company_

_I can't deny_

_Bad, Bad Company_

_Till the day I die_

He started to think about the words that were drifting to him from somewhere in far off radio-land. He often wondered about things as simple as songs like this one during quiet hours on the road, or at night when sleep ruthlessly evaded him, a great deal more than before…well before.

So much had happened that made him question the validity of his decisions. He used to be so convinced what he did was the right thing, so sure of the choices he made. Not anymore. Although, for all the uncertainly that suddenly felt the need to creep uninvited into his life, there was one thing he would never question. He would never, ever regret bringing Sam back. Never.

_Rebel souls, deserters we are called_

_Chose a gun, and threw away the sun_

_Now these towns, they all know our names_

_Six gun sound, is our claim to fame_

That's what he and Sam were, rebel souls. Again he glanced over at Sam, which was quickly becoming something of a habit. He wanted to make sure that he never forgot what he looked like, although deep down he already knew he never could, but that didn't matter. He wanted to know every line, every wrinkle, every angle.

He loved his brother with all his heart, but sometimes he couldn't help but wonder…what they had done, what they were doing…how could something be so wrong and so right all at once? He asked himself that question a million times and once more for good measure. The answer he found himself giving to his own question was as the same every time as the question itself; it doesn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Sam being safe and alive and them being together, in that order.

The more he thought about it the more sure he became. Everything was going to be ok; Sam was going to be ok. No matter how much Sam didn't believe it when he told him, Dean knew it was true. During though priceless hours of the night when they could just lay there, together, Dean would look at Sam and it would hit him all over again that in a few short months that he would have to leave Sam all alone, and that Sam was strong enough to get through it. Sam was stronger than Dean, strong enough to exist without his brother at his side, unlike Dean who couldn't bare it even for one day, that long, horrible day…

_I can hear them say, Bad Company_

_I can't deny_

_Bad, Bad Company_

_Till the day I die_

_Till the day I die…_That's not too far away, Dean mused as he listened to the last remains of the song as it petered off. After the song was over he reached over and turned off the radio, content to drive in a comfortable silence. The only sound was the soft and infallible purring of the Impala's engine.

Giving Sam another sideways glance, Dean felt a sense of unruffled happiness wash over him. He had done what his father had asked him. They'd killed yellow eyes, he's saved Sammy. Dean had his brother, his car, and the endless web of American interstate. No matter what Sam said, in him mind, he was in good company and for the first time in a long time everything was right with the world.


End file.
